


symbiosis

by SapphyreLily



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Oblivious Pining, Slow Burn, strangers to enemies to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 16:22:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11317152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: Sharp edges grate against each other, wearing each other down, until they slide together in synchrony.





	symbiosis

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [Symphony](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aatr_2MstrI) by Clean Bandit feat. Zara Larsson

The melody is sweet, lovely, tugging on his heartstrings. It sweeps him away and leaves him breathless, his heart aching, yearning for more.

His eyes follow a cluster of leaves churned up by the wind, dancing on a gale. He feels like them in this moment; tossed up and about, his whims and fancies making him light.

How nice it is, to be able to dream.

The sun is peeking over the roof of the gym, and he hurries to the entrance, to slip on his volleyball shoes and duck inside. It might be early, but he is already late – the second years of the first string are already there, practicing their serves.

He trots along the side, eyes drawn to a lithe figure as he throws the ball in the air, running up behind it and _hitting_. It sails over the net cleanly, the resounding _thoomp_ clear even through his earpieces.

He tugs them out of his ears, cutting off the soundtrack, the _squeak_ of ball shoes and the _swish_ of the net coming into focus.

(It feels like a clear bell through the silence, a peal of clarity in the haze of a dream.)

His eyes stay on the boy who just served, even as his feet take him further away.

The boy never looks up, wiping his sweat with the hem of his shirt, but he imagines – oh, he _imagines_.

What it’d be like to be suave and talented and that good-looking, to be brilliant enough to be bumped to official setter even while the third year setter remained.

He wonders what it’d be like to be _him_ , the prince of Miyagi setters. Sharp and bold, but also thoughtful and empathetic. Brilliant. Shining. _Strong._

As if finally feeling his gaze, the other boy turns to meet his eyes, and he gazes back unflinchingly.

It is a split second, a hairbreadth of a minute.

Then he ducks into the changing room, breaking the moment, earpieces swinging from his hand. His ears are assaulted by the quiet, but his heart is singing.

He wonders, what the world looks like through Semi Eita’s eyes.

\------

Third year of middle school and the first three months of high school feel like fog – something he can’t really make out though it remains on the edge of his vision, clinging to his skin.

He made it into Shiratorizawa, even without a sports recommendation. He made it onto the volleyball team, though he is nowhere near close to first string. His heart has found its goal, and yet it flounders, lost with no direction.

_What now? What next?_

He knows, logically, what he should be doing, but even as he runs laps and practices drills, it doesn’t seem _real._ It doesn’t seem like he’s _progressing_.

He feels like he is stuck in mud; it’s sucking at his legs, pulling him in. Slowly, deliberately swallowing him.

He’s losing sight of the surface, but he doesn’t have the energy to fight.

Clarity is something that strikes out of the blue, out of the dark of the unknown.

Clarity is a badly timed receive, a reflex action, a bad habit risen to the surface.

It is receiving a strong serve with one arm because his legs won’t move, the ball flying cleanly over the net.

It is the gasp of the opponent team, the shock on his teammates' faces, the clenching of hands on knees as the coach prepares to yell.

But most of all, clarity is shock hardening into a challenge even as the one who served runs forward to set the ball, and the receive that goes awry following the spike.

(It is white hot flame springing from charcoal, brows knit and an impressive scowl.)

(It is the realisation that he just bested the official setter, and the thought lights a fire in him.)

_(I can become the best.)_

\-----

_Best_ isn’t what he wants, not really.

_If I want to play, I have to be unassuming and mild._

But best is what he is inspired to be, because no one fans the fire of spite in him like his _favourite_ upperclassman does.

“Are you sure you know how to jump serve?”

The voice is sceptical, maybe mildly concerned, but he feels irrational anger rise in him, even as he bows to hide it.

“I know the theory.”

He can almost hear Semi gritting his teeth, but does not bother to look – he turns away and tosses the ball in the air, running after it and trying to hit.

(He fails, of course he does, but there are more balls, and more chances to try.)

(So he tries, and tries, and tries.)

A whistle blown makes him hurry towards the gathered team, and he listens to Coach lecture before he dismisses them.

“Kenjirou.”

He freezes.

“Your serves are abysmal. Practice more. Eita!”

He gulps when Semi jogs back to them, standing close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off him. “Yes, Coach?”

The old man juts his chin towards Shirabu. “Teach him to serve properly.”

“I– But–”

“Shiratorizawa has no place for someone not well-rounded. You are the best with serves, and he is the official setter. Teach him.”

He sees Semi's fists clench, gaze tracing the tendons as they stand in stark contrast to his skin.

“Yes, Coach.”

\-----

Extra serving practice with Semi wouldn’t be so bad if 1, he didn’t keep pointing out all his mistakes and 2, he didn’t spend every demonstration analysing Semi's posture and body form.

(To be fair, he can’t learn without either, but he is _distracted_.)

(He doesn’t like him, but his senior is unfairly attractive. He doesn’t know if he wants to punch him or be him.)

“Again.”

He forces his most calm look and steps forward, tossing the ball in the air. He knows before he jumps that it will not make it–

A heavy sigh from behind him, and his teeth grind.

“I think you can just practice normal serves for now.”

He whips around, fury and disbelief warring in him. “Aren’t you supposed to be teaching me jump serves?”

“Watch your tone,” Semi warns.

He dips his head obediently, sarcastically, and hears the whine of skin on leather as Semi squeezes the ball in his hands too hard.

“Perfect your normal serve for the tournament. When it’s over, I’ll teach you the jump serve again.”

He doesn’t like this. “I need to know the serve.”

“You need to know how to hold your own.” Semi shoots back. “Focus on setting for Wakatoshi. For the team. I’m the pinch server, I’ll cover you.”

He hears the words unsaid, because it’s an old routine, worn soft by age and repetition.

_I’m_ your _pinch server. Trust in me._

He lifts his chin, and lifts the ball for a normal serve.

\-----

They lost the fight. There will be no Nationals. Not this year.

It was hard to hold back tears at the stadium, but now they won’t come. He feels defeated, drained, empty.

(The weight of his new position sits heavily on his shoulders, a boulder on his chest. He isn’t sure if the blurring and darkening of his vision is because of the mental or physical fatigue.)

Something knocks into his ankle; a volleyball, one of the team’s.

He frowns. He thought they kept them all.

“Pass me the ball?”

His head lifts slowly, a mechanical action. He raises a hand to knock the ball back to the person, uncaring about its path.

A sigh, the rustle of clothes as the person sits next to him.

He says nothing.

The other says nothing.

They lean against the wall, watching the sun begin its descent behind the buildings of the dorm, breathing out of sync, each lost in his own thoughts.

“It’s getting late.”

He stirs then, a sarcastic remark on the tip of his tongue, almost reflex. “Is it?”

He hears his companion huff – exasperated laughter, not the biting remark he expects. “Not too late for you, but too late for me.”

He analyses those words – a rare instance that his upperclassman decides to hide a double meaning in them. “You’re not leaving yet.”

(It sounds like a question.)

The ash blond sighs, slumping beside him, and their sleeves brush. “You’ll see me around, but probably not much after this. I need to figure out what to do after high school.”

He knows that’s what it is, but he has never held back his words. Not around him. “I haven’t perfected the jump serve, though.”

Semi turns a little, a soft smile melting his expression. “You’re good enough.”

(His heart aches – full of warmth and the trust put in him. But also… Longing.)

“Not as good as you.”

(It’s probably the most honest he’s ever been, and he can feel the heat rising to his ears.)

Semi chuckles. “With more practice, you might be.” He tilts his head, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. “You’ve surpassed me once. I don’t doubt you’ll do it again.”

Then he rises, the ball tucked under one arm. “Come on. Curfew's soon. You need to lock up the gym.”

He follows him without complaint, hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket. His shoulder still burns with the imprint of his hand, and his mind seals away the image of a smile.

\-----

It’s odd, standing in the gym without the third years at their backs, because _they’re_ the third years now.

(Outside the gym, cherry blossoms sway on the trees, the blooms an auspicious opening to the new year.)

(His eyes follow the descent of petals through the open gym door, the breeze whisking them away into the unknown.)

The first years are finally assembled, their anxious, eager eyes on him.

A sudden chord of nervousness plucks in his heart, its disjointed note twanging through his being.

_I can’t do this._

But he feels an arm brush past his, and it sparks a memory of cocoa eyes, warmth shining in them.

(He can almost feel the heavy imprint of his hand on his shoulder again, lips mouthing words he never expected to hear.)

He opens his mouth to begin his speech.

_(“I believe in you, Captain.”)_

\-----

Every time he takes his turn serving in the practice matches, he sees the other team tense, the first years steeling themselves for the worst. The second years smile grimly, sinking into a steadier position for receiving, and everyone on his team covers the back of their heads.

(It’s a familiar sight, and he used to be one of them.)

He tosses the ball into the air and runs after it.

Every movement he makes, down to the arc of his arms through the air and his palm connecting with the ball feels like he’s stepping into another world, into someone else’s skin.

The ball crashes into the ground before a terrified first year, and he smiles as his team cheers.

He shakes off the peculiar feeling, even as he catches the ball and walks to the serving line again.

“One more!”

“Nice serve!”

_(“No-touch ace!”)_

He stares at the ball sombrely, exhaling softly and tossing the ball up again.

When his feet and the ball hit the ground, the cheer and the gazes turned on him make him feel like someone else.

It’s a little creepy, but he reminds himself it’s only because he’s gotten stronger.

\-----

_“Shirabu-san, your serves are so good now!”_

_“Thank you. I’ve been practicing.”_

_“You’re so amazing! It was almost like watching Semi-san serve, I swear I almost forgot who was serving for a moment–”_

_“I’ll serve at you next time.” His tone is sweet, words glittering with a threat._

_Goshiki squeaks and runs off, begging his pardon and forgiveness and_ please don’t serve at me, please.

_He smiles at his retreating back, with a mental note to do just so. It will make him stronger._

_…but it fades just as quickly._

_His palm still tingles from hitting the ball so hard, and he glances back at the empty gym._

_(A force of habit, an empty feeling of searching for something, but never finding it.)_

_His heart thumps painfully in his chest as he walks away._

\-----

He walks into the café, spotting him in the back corner, already waiting. It’s effortless to plop down in front of him, because _This is routine, this is habit,_ but he looks forward to it all the same.

Semi closes the book he was reading, offering a smile, nodding to a waiter for their drinks. “Hey. How’ve you been?”

“Peachy,” he grumbles, though his heart lights up a little at the grin spreading across his senior’s face. “How was your week?”

“Oh, you know, the usual…”

It’s too easy to fall into conversation, and he wonders, just a little, when this became routine as well.

(When every smile he got out of him made him feel happier, when they’d stopped antagonising each other and learnt to listen instead.)

(When he started feeling like he never wanted their weekly meetups to stop, even when he had nothing left to learn from him anymore.)

They push away from the table at the same time, and he takes out his wallet, because it’s his turn to pay. And then they are out in the sunlight, shielding their eyes from the glare, waiting for the crowd to pass by.

“See you next week?”

“Of course.”

(He wonders why he keeps coming back, when he doesn’t keep in contact with any of his other upperclassmen.)

\-----

**[Semi]:** When's the next practice match?

**[Shirabu]:** Thursday. Vs seijou

**[Semi]:** I’ll be there

A smile creeps across his face, anticipation stirring in his chest.

\-----

It’s always difficult, playing against Aoba Jousai. But he has a few tricks up his sleeve, and he wants to spring a surprise on them.

Coach doesn’t fully approve of his plan, but he lets them have it. He knows how far they’ve come.

He can feel the eyes on them from the upper balcony, their seniors come to watch, but he refuses to look. _Not yet, not yet._

The scoreboard ticks up, overbalancing and falling in Seijou's favour. He can hear the shouts from the balcony, the protests and encouragement, and across the net, their opponents' eyes gleam with the thought of an easy win.

It’s his turn to serve again, and the eyes on his back feel like the weight of the sky across his shoulders.

He turns, spinning the ball, finally lifting his gaze, seeking out the one person he wants to watch.

Eyes lock, and he thinks he sees his mouth tighten in a grimace.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, never breaking eye contact, then tosses the ball towards the ceiling.

The yelp of pain as the ball catches on the shoulder of Seijou's ace and flies out of bounds makes him grin. The rest of Shiratorizawa cheers, and their formation tightens up. He can almost feel the killing intent rolling off them, now that the signal has been given.

_We will aim for the chinks in your armour, and you will remember our names._

\-----

He finds him waiting outside the clubroom when practice is over, accepting the cold drink held out to him with thanks.

“You did great out there.”

He glances up, sees the trace of a smile, the pride shining in his eyes. He dips his head, but it’s without malicious intent. Those times are long past.

“Thank you.”

“Your serves are amazing now.” Semi sounds a bit bitter, a bit wistful. “And _what_ was that strategy?”

“I wanted to see if Yahaba would underestimate us.” He shrugs, stepping up to the railing next to him. “It worked perfectly.”

“Were you aiming for their ace or was that an accident?”

“I'm glad you noticed,” he says, flashing teeth. “Even if the serve were to go out of bounds, it would still touch the opponent first.”

Semi laughs, shaking his head. “You are _brutal._ Who did you abuse to perfect that serve?”

“Whose receives have improved the most?” He shoots back, and earns an incredulous laugh.

“You’re going to break him.”

“I'm going to make him a force to be reckoned with,” he corrects. His eyes narrow as he smirks at the disappearing sun. “We _will_ get to Nationals this year.”

The shock of a hand on his head, messing up his hair, is enough to break him from his thoughts. “I know you can.”

(Even though he knew they could before, now he feels certain they will.)

\-----

It is another routine, another set of actions that have somehow worked themselves into his life.

Every time Shiratorizawa plays a match, he will look up at the stands and meet his eyes, confidence bolstering in him.

Semi doesn’t come on time for every match, but he always comes. And the moment Shirabu realises he’s there, his serves get stronger and stronger.

_(“Play harder than you ever have. Don’t lose a single second.”)_

_(“Of course.”)_

…because he’s not just playing for himself, but he doesn’t know if anyone else has noticed it.

(How every time he sees Semi in the stands, it feels like he’s no longer one person, but two.)

(Two setters, two servers, stepping not only into his image and strength, but combining, blending, fortifying.)

(A honed weapon, an unstoppable force.)

He holds the ball up, a tribute to the stands, to the one whose image he carries, whose spirit and will he contains.

He takes a deep breath and tosses the ball towards the lights.

\-----

_“Where will you go, after high school?”_

_A pause, a clink of a teacup against the saucer._

_“I don’t know yet.”_

_“Will you go pro?”_

_There’s no hesitation this time, no holding back, no waiting for the prelude._

_“No.” Hazel meets cocoa, before they drop away, too hesitant to hold eye contact. “Nowhere other than Shiratorizawa would take my plays the way they are now.”_

_“You can always change back to your old style.”_

_He raises his head, ready to protest, but Semi isn’t looking at him, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “You were a great player before you came to Shiratorizawa. You can do that again.”_

_“…scouts don’t look based on what you can be, but what you already are.”_

_“So show them.” Semi grins at him, his eyes dark with challenge. “If you want to go pro as much as I think you do, show them what you are made of. You have the potential. One or two dump shots won’t make Washijou-sensei bench you.”_

_He plays with his teacup, tracing its handle thoughtfully. “I need to give up my position soon, anyway.”_

_“Then what do you have to lose?”_

_He is silent for a long while longer, but Semi can see the tiny smile playing at the edge of his lips, and knows the battle is won._

\-----

He is surprised to find him there after practice, but says nothing as he falls in step next to him.

“How was the handing over?”

“He’ll be a good captain, for what it’s worth,” he murmurs, thinking of over-enthusiastic yells, but sincere intensity the moment his feet step past white double lines. “And even the setter won’t be too bad.”

“Then don’t worry about them. Worry about your studies.”

“My studies are perfectly well, _thank you–”_

“–but you need to do better to get to where you want.” His voice is quiet, but the words strike home and all pretences fall away, leaving him stripped, bare and naked before him.

“Yeah.” He thinks of the road ahead, not only for volleyball, but also for his passion. “It will be like trying to get into Shiratorizawa all over again.”

“You’ve done it once, what’s another time?”

“It will be harder, obviously.”

“And Shiratorizawa hasn’t prepared you for _hard?”_ Semi snorts disbelievingly, and Shirabu suppresses his scowl.

“You know the requirements as well as I do–”

“But I also know you.” Again, his words leave him speechless, taken aback by how much he knows. He forgets, sometimes, how much closer they’ve become over the past months.

“I know you,” Semi continues, glancing sideways at him, his demeanour serious, “And I know how much you’ve tried, how hard you’ve worked and how smart you are, even without the extra slogging you do.

“You’re going to make it in, and even if you don’t, about a million other places will be willing to have you.”

He tries to suppress the feeling in his chest, but his voice still comes out a little thick. “What a vote of confidence.”

Semi knocks into him gently, his sigh lifted away by the breeze. “Don’t believe me if you want. But Shiratorizawa prepares you for a whole lot. Even someone who wasn’t in an advanced class can get a decent job, what more someone who can actually go to college?”

Shirabu tilts his head back then, eyes closed, the remnants of setting sun burning his eyelids. He says nothing, but lets his feet and his upperclassman guide him, the silence hanging between them like diamonds – sparkling, hard, multifaceted.

\-----

He slumps on his table, crumpling his notes, a disjointed whine escaping.

He is so tired.

“Are you actually dying this time or is it another of those dramatic moments?”

He fumbles for a crumpled Post-It, tossing it carelessly over his shoulder and hoping it will hit his roommate. “Shut up.”

“You need to take a break.”

“No-one has time for breaks,” Shirabu mutters to his notes, stretching briefly before organising the mess and starting again.

A series of knocks comes at the door, breaking him from his reverie, and he glances over his shoulder. “Are you going to get that?”

“No,” Kawanishi replies, tapping at his phone. “You’re closer, you get it.”

“You're not studying, you should get it.”

“I am taking a _break,_ unlike you. Walk to the door and make that your break.”

Shirabu grumbles at him but gets up anyway, wincing as his knees creak. He must have been sitting there longer than he expected.

He half-wants to snap at the person knocking when he pulls the door open, but the words die on his tongue. “What are you doing here?”

Semi raises an eyebrow at him. “I have free will and can do whatever I want.”

He splutters his surprise, and even Kawanishi lets out a snort. “Don’t you have work?”

“You do realise it’s past eight, right?”

He twists back to look for his clock – the digital glow beams at him, proudly displaying _8:16pm_.

_It's been five hours? Wow._

He hears a sigh. “Put on your shoes, I’m getting you dinner.”

“Wait– What– No, I can’t–”

“You need energy to keep studying. Get your shoes or I will.”

“You are such a nag,” he complains, but leaves the door ajar as he grabs his wallet, jacket and phone, slipping his feet into his shoes. “We’re not taking more than an hour, okay?”

“You eat in less than fifteen minutes,” Semi points out, leaning against the doorframe. “But sure, whatever.”

“The faster we go, the faster we get back. Bye, Taichi,” he calls, pushing Semi out and yanking the door shut before he can reply.

He looks up at his upperclassman, sweeping an arm out sarcastically. “Lead the way, senpai.”

Semi rolls his eyes.

\-----

The ramen bar is a cheap, dingy place near the school, crammed with students trying to escape school grounds. It’s always busy and way too cramped, but he loves it anyway.

The food tastes a lot better today than on any other day, but it may be because he hasn’t eaten in many hours. He can see Semi eyeing him in his peripheral vision, a smirk playing on the edge of his lips. “Hungry, are we?”

He doesn’t bother replying around mouthfuls of noodles, though he tries to aim a kick under the table at him. His attempt is stopped the first time, so he settles for glaring instead, unwilling to upset the table and the soup by too much kicking.

Semi pretends not to notice, and keeps typing on his phone.

His bowl is empty in another few minutes, and they leave quietly, emerging into cold wind that quickly freezes them.

Shirabu can’t stop shivering on the way back, but keeps refusing Semi's offer of his coat, opting to walk faster instead. He hears many exasperated sighs, and after the umpteenth time, he is suddenly yanked backwards, colliding with a warm body.

“You are so stubborn,” Semi mutters, arm settling more firmly around his shoulders. “You won’t be able to study if you get sick.”

“A b-bit of c-c-cold won’t k-kill me,” he chatters, but presses closer anyway, hesitantly wrapping an arm around his senior.

Semi sighs and shrugs his arm loose, yanking it down to rest on his waist. “Bodies are warmer at the torso area. Aren’t you supposed to be smart?”

“C-cold s-shuts down b-body processes. Including t-thinking.”

“Then why do you keep refusing my coat, you brainless chicken?”

Shirabu refuses to answer and presses closer, fitting his head against his collarbone and huddling against the wind.

He can’t understand the warmth blooming under his skin, touching his chilled limbs even as the wind whisks the heat away.

\-----

**[Semi]:** Thanks for calling me up

**[Kawanishi]:** Someone had to

\-----

**[Kawanishi]:** Are you going to tell him ?

**[Semi]:** Tell who what

**[Kawanishi]:** Kenjirou. It’s been 2 years

**[Semi]:** I don’t know what you’re talking about?

**[Kawanishi]:** …

**[Kawanishi]:** I’ll talk to Yamagata-san

\-----

The day is surprisingly beautiful after he gets out of the exam venue, and as much as he’d like to complain that he didn’t prepare enough, it’s over, and he can’t do anything about it.

He spots a familiar figure waiting outside the building, and though surprised, he doesn’t question it.

He walks up to him and bumps elbows with him, an involuntary smile lifting his lips. “Hey.”

Semi looks up and tucks his phone away, his grin a little stilted. “Hey. How was the exam?”

Permission granted, he launches into a multifaceted complaint about everything wrong and right with the exam, the questions he was sure to have gotten wrong, the ones he thought he did alright on. Semi nods along as they walk, steering them towards a café, pausing his heated speech only to order drinks.

Shirabu feels his phone vibrating as Semi places the orders, and peers at it.

**[Taichi]:** U did fine on the exam, quit worrying

**[Taichi]:** Btw, r u ever going to tell Semi-san you like him

He blinks at his phone, certain he read it wrong, but the kanji remain unchanged.

**[Kenjirou]:** waht

**[Taichi]:** r u rlly that dense

**[Kenjirou]:** I don’t like Semi-san wtf Taichi???

**[Taichi]:** ohmygod you ARE that dense

**[Taichi]:** I knew studying that much had side effects

His reply is halfway typed when he feels a tap on his shoulder and hands pushing him away from the queue. He erases everything in panic, locking his phone in case _someone_ sees.

Semi doesn’t seem to notice – he’s chewing his lip and staring at the menu.

It’s a testament to how far they’ve come that instead of looking away, Shirabu prods him, telling him not to think so hard.

The ash blond turns to him, frowning. “You’re usually telling me to think _more_.”

Shirabu shrugs. “You look like you’re going to burst a vessel. What’s got your panties in a twist?”

Semi knocks him on the head with a stirrer. “Just thinking.”

“Oh, yes, I _couldn’t tell._ ”

“Brat,” Semi grumbles, but it’s half-hearted, tinged with soft exasperation instead of annoyance. “…it’s just something Hayato brought up.”

“Hmm.” He doesn’t pry, turning away. If he wanted him to know, he’d have said it by now.

“Taichi brought it up too,” he hears.

(It’s soft, so soft, as if he doesn’t really want him to hear.)

(But he does, and his muscles seize, certain insinuations ringing in his mind.)

He forces himself to take the cups, handing one to him carefully, not meeting his eyes. “So what is it?”

(He can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t entertain such a ridiculous notion–)

“Have you ever thought about having a girlfriend?”

(He exhales, tension dissipating.)

“No. Too much trouble. I’ve been too busy for relationships, anyway.”

Semi smirks at him as he holds the door open. “One might say you’re dating your studies.”

“Or volleyball.”

“You could be two-timing your studies with volleyball.”

“Shh, don’t let them know.”

They share a laugh, and in that moment of sunny smiles and unbridled fondness, it becomes clear to him.

_When are you going to tell Semi-san you like him?_

He swallows thickly–

_(Is this what it feels like? To like someone?)_

_(It seems so normal. Familiar. Comfortable.)_

_(…oh.)_

–and asks.

“Have _you_ thought about having a girlfriend?”

(He thinks he’s trying to avoid the question, spending too long blowing on his coffee, sipping it slowly.)

“No,” Semi finally admits, and his sideways smile is a little bitter. “I never thought I needed to.”

“No?”

(He’s being nosy, but it’s not new – what’s new is the grimace tugging his senior’s lips down, the little shake of his head.)

“Remember I said Hayato and Taichi said something?”

(Of course he remembers, it’s only been plaguing him for the past five minutes–)

“What of it?”

(The silence stretches longer this time, like a violin string tightened to its breaking point–)

“Well,” he draws out, finally looking at him, finally meeting his eyes, “I think I never needed a girlfriend because I already had what I wanted.”

His heart skips a beat, but his brain whirrs into overdrive, and the words fall out before he can rethink them. “That sounds awfully cheesy. Who are you and what have you done with Semi-san?”

“Oi,” Semi protests, but Shirabu only grins, hiding behind his cup. “I’m trying my best here.”

“I’m certain you are.”

The ash blond groans and bites the rim of his cup, chewing at it moodily. “Why do I even like you?”

(One heartbeat, two. He sees his eyes widen, and their gazes lock.)

(It doesn’t feel like a casual joke, somehow.)

“Was that supposed to be a confession?” Shirabu tries to keep his tone even, but his voice is too low for that – raw with a maelstrom of emotion.

“I– Um.” Semi clears his throat, staring into his cup. “I guess?”

(His chest is warm, but his veins are buzzing with an unknown emotion. A bubbly thrill, an urge to shout.)

“I want a redo.”

Semi’s eyes grow wide, and he nearly drops his cup. Shirabu reaches out to steady it, fingers wrapping around longer, chilled ones, and when their gazes meet, he offers a tiny smile.

\-----

_“You never told me what Taichi and Yamagata-san said.”_

_“Oh.” Semi raises his head halfway off where it is pillowed on his arms, pursing his lips. “They made me re-evaluate my thoughts about you.”_

_“Wow, that’s a big word, re-evaluate–”_

_Semi smacks him with a cushion and he falls back laughing, barely caring about defending himself._

_His boyfriend humphs and tucks the cushion under himself, redirecting his speech to the laptop screen. “Basically, they asked me when I was going to confess, not that I had any idea I liked you.”_

_Shirabu hums and settles next to him, head dropping on his shoulder. “Taichi asked me the same thing.”_

_“When?”_

_“The day you confessed.”_

_“He’s a meddling ass,” Semi remarks, shifting so that they can lie more comfortably side-by-side._

_“The worst,” Shirabu agrees._

_They watch the movie quietly, until Shirabu reaches out and pauses it._

_“What was that for?” Semi asks, but the brunet tilts his head at him, expression thoughtful._

_“Do you think that we’d ever have realised if Taichi didn’t get sick of watching us play at a relationship?”_

_That stuns him into silence for a while, though his eyes continue to flick over Shirabu’s face, seemingly memorising the look of him._

_“Maybe,” he sighs, turning away, sinking down on the cushions. “Or maybe not. Let the what-ifs stay as what-ifs. We’d probably have realised eventually.”_

_“Or we might have continued dating volleyball and two-timing everything else–”_

_Semi laughs and knocks shoulders with him, and Shirabu presses back with a grin. “I can’t believe you still think like that.”_

_“Admit it, it is one of the funniest things we’ve ever discussed.”_

_“Hmm, maybe.”_

_Shirabu shoves against him, so he picks up the cushion again, igniting round x of pillow-fights-and-not-watching-the-movie._

_But afterwards, they watch the rest of it through hooded eyes, fingers lightly interlaced, breaths a sighing cadence._

_(And maybe, maybe, they think in synchrony sometimes, because fingers weave more tightly together, the movie plays on, and they fall asleep, watching each other from the corner of their eyes.)_


End file.
